


One Good Pot

by Sela21k



Category: Stargate - All Series, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-16
Updated: 2011-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-23 19:00:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sela21k/pseuds/Sela21k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He resisted the urge to brew up one last pot knowing that he carried more than the last of the coffee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Good Pot

He woke up from a dreamless sleep and found the little vacuum packed bag tucked inside his jacket. It was one of those `try me' packets of premium coffee, just enough for one good pot. He figured it was a thank you from someone for refusing to leave them behind, even though the sick, the wounded, the old and the young cut their speed in half. As the senior officer it was his word that halted the protest of battle weary troops when survivors began to follow them as they moved through the burned out areas. "They are why we do what we do" he had told them firmly and that was the end of it. No one got left behind. Not on his watch.

His offer to share with his men and the others was politely but firmly refused. So like King David of old, he humbly refused himself that one good pot because the sacrifice of this gift was too dear. He carried the foil packet in an inside pocket, the heat from his body sending the strong earthy scent wafting over him every time he opened his jacket. The aroma brought to his mind the intense gazes of two almost identical sets of clear blue eyes twinkling over various steaming cups and a voice as rich and a deep as the brew itself over shared pots during off world night watches. The pain of having lost them was a continuous dull ache but the memory of their heroic sacrifice at the mountain gave him the courage to continue on.

He noticed how the young ones started to curl up near to him when they made camp for the night, inching closer and closer over time. They had stayed clear due to his gruff manner which kept them satisfactorily out of his way. The change in their behavior baffled him until one of the smallest snuggled her way into his arms in one night and whispered, "You smell like my daddy". He never pushed them away after that, knowing in what became for many of them the last few days of their lives, he represented the last bit of comfort they would know. It helped him to resist the constant urge to brew up one last good pot knowing he carried more than the last of the coffee. He carried for himself and others, the last good memory of home.


End file.
